Monthly Archives: January 2014

I first learned to hold my breath in elementary school. My friend Amy had a pool, and every summer I’d spend as many hours as possible doing underwater somersaults and handstands on the precipice where the shallow end dipped into the deep end. I would dunk and spin underwater, twirling and flipping and spinning before I emerged, gasping, grinning, hungry for air and anxious to slip back under again. I wanted to swim more than I wanted to do anything – more than I wanted to read Babysitters Club or the forbidden Sweet Valley High books, more than I wanted to watch TV, more than I wanted to secretly play doctor in her basement. I wanted to swim so much that I happily paid the price of swimming, which was to stand at the side of the pool with Amy and try to touch our toes, while her mother, a Weight Watchers counselor, clucked her tongue at our bellies rolling under our swimsuits and our straining fingers almost – but not quite – grasping our feet.

Ilayne was always concerned about our roundness. At sleepovers she fed us weight watchers desserts, and she’d limit us to one piece of pizza. Both Amy and I were slightly-more-than-normally-pudgy little kids. I was probably eight when I first realized this about myself, that I was a different dimensioned person than most of my friends, and ten when I realized my sloppy, strong body was bad. Shameful. With Amy, I felt normal, united in roundness as well as badness. Her mother’s concern about our bodies was evident, and she encouraged us to diet together when we got to fourth grade. Ilayne was in the business of taming bodies into more acceptable packaging, and as elementary schoolers we were certainly not exempt. My own mother’s concern was quieter but just as evident, not in words she spoke to me but in words she spoke about herself. She fretted over her petite frame, named her size eight hips “disgusting” and her appetite “out of control.” Mom loved to be “bad” by eating dessert, and was always mourning her weakness when it came to chocolate.

It was in fourth grade that I learned to suck my stomach in, holding my breath up in the highest lobes of my lungs and keeping my core engaged in the business of holding back my belly’s bulges. Long before I discovered control top pantyhose or spanx girdles, I was an accomplished sucker-inner. I learned that you never take a picture without smiling and sucking in, and in our photo albums from this season you can see self-consciousness creep into every expression I provide the camera. Neither the dieting nor the sucking in made me actually lose weight – if anything, I gained. I started sneaking food – stealing cookies from my neighbor’s kitchen while she cared for us in the mornings before the bus. And I stopped moving, conscious, always, of my body’s unacceptable size and capacity.

In sixth grade I started singing in the chorus, and was shocked to discover that by then I had forgotten how to breathe. My teacher had to teach me to expand my belly with my breath, an exercise that was humiliating because my full roundness showed. I sacrificed intonation for physical flatness, straining my throat to achieve the pitch that collapsed under my lack of breath.

As an adult I’ve noticed my breathlessness in many shapes and seasons. When I first tried yoga, I found myself filled with rage at the thought of the three-part breath. After decades of only allowing air into the upper parts of my lungs, pushing out my belly and back with an inhale felt terrifying, disgusting. In my thirties, anxiety and panic attacks have often left me breathless, gasping. Making love with my husband, the breath catches in my throat and I hold, pressing through my usual brainandheart numbness into a burst of pleasure made more intense by depriving myself of oxygen. And now, my newest habit – meditation – reminds me always to come back to my breath, focus on my breath, use the rhythm and depth of my breath to bring me back to my physical self. I desperately want to claim this returning, and yet the practice is hard. It comes against nearly three decades of habitual breath-rejection. For years I’ve tried to reduce myself to a floating head, disconnected from my body and heart, the air slipping into my nose and holding there, detached. It is nothing short of revolutionary when I sit and breathe deep. My whole self roils at the audacious thought of taking up the space I’m in, of filling my belly full with centering breath and not apologizing for it sticking out or staying round.

My friend Lisa invited me to her Zumba class here in Harvard. Every Thursday morning she bravely leads us as we shake our hineys to salsa music and Katy Perry in the local Congregational Church. I am terrified to go every week, and every week I have so much fun. Sweaty, breathless fun, fun that makes my knees ache, more fun than I’ve ever had exercising.

Every week, around Wednesday afternoon, I start to get nervous. Sure I’ll hate it this time around, sure I’d rather be doing something else. And on Thursday morning I diligently put on my sweats, telling myself if I really hate it I can leave, I can stop whenever I want to. It is an act of will to get myself there, harder than getting myself in the chair to write or even online to do our taxes. I’ve started wearing lipstick to Zumba, a trick to boost my confidence, and a way of protecting myself from the inevitable unprettyness that happens when I work out. I have always considered sweating ugly, my red face an indication of shame and a beacon to everyone showing how unfit my body is. It scares me to go out in the world and be unbeautiful, like I’m intentionally giving over my power and my voice and my value and telling people “I’m not here to please you,” which feels the closest to exile I come. I know this is crazy – that mental knowing doesn’t help the fear get smaller though. The fear isn’t logical fear, its heart fear, its a lack of nerve, and an opening to the deep concern I nurture that I am not and will never be enough, no matter how big or small I am, no matter how quiet or beautiful or valuable or smart. In my deepest self I still do not believe I have been loved with an everlasting love. Zumba makes me confront this bitter root every week.

And then I get there and the music starts and my butt starts to shake and even as I’m dubious I’m filled with joy, pure physical delight and lightness, even as I sweat, even as I feel myself tired and breathless. For an hour, I’m free. Free to be myself, to be in my body, to let my body do its work of sweating and breathing and flexing and growing without shame or evaluation. So this is how it feels to be happy in my body, so this is how it feels to live outside of fear. So this is how it feels to be truly, deeply, everlastingly loved. For an hour every Thursday, I believe it.

We’ve been battling the stomach flu here. I am thoroughly grossed out and have been wiping all surfaces in the house with antibacterial wipes. Dad doesn’t think they make any difference but I refuse to not try to do something. Scott and Nathan were by far the hardest hit, and Arlie is the only one who hasn’t succumbed yet, though her nose is suspiciously stuffy this morning.

I’m making excuses for not writing. To my credit I haven’t been cleaning or cooking either, just sitting in the big chair with the TV on and napping as often as possible. The necessity of watching kids tv instead of what I want to watch (House of Cards, or a Netflix documentary, please) is frustrating. Octonauts and Strawberry Shortcake don’t make me feeeeeeeelll better, I want to wail. Everyone knows there are medicinal properties to West Wing, and I have been deprived of this necessary therapy.

Anyway, today I’m feeling closer to human, and am going to write whiny, uninspired stuff on my blog and call it a victory.